The Persian Monkey
by AngelKittyMewMew
Summary: A new story told using our favorite characters! Purists, please don't hate me but there is no Christine in this story! A young dancer with her own secrets will intrude upon our Phantom's solitude in a most unusual way.
1. The Persian Monkey

October 31. The ballet corp. was a twitter with anticipation. The new managers had decided to continue the tradition of hosting an All Hallows Eve ball. The girls had been anxious that the two men would be too cost conscious to indulge the local populace with a second ball given that the New Years Masque was far too much a mainstay to be cancelled. Messieurs Andre and Firmin, though, seemed to be more than keen on showing off their newly acquired wealth by displaying their newly acquired opera. This year's ball was to be spectacular!

"Girls!" Madame Giry's terse voice rang through the practice hall. "I will not have you shirking your rehearsals due to a silly ball!"

"But please Madame! It is not a silly ball! It's going to be the event of the season! We haven't had anything this exciting to look forward to in ages!" squeaked Little Jammes.

"I hear that Messieurs Andre and Firmin have brought in gypsy tumblers! Can you imagine real gypsies!

"And have you seen the entrance hall! The decorations are incredible!"

"Everyone's going to be there and we haven't even begun to get ready!"

"It is by my grace that you are allowed to attend at all. If you don't stop this incessant prattle and finish your repetitions than I may change my mind altogether."

"Oui, Madame," the girls solemnly answered in unison.

"Meg. Your mother wouldn't really forbid us from going to the ball would she?" whispered Jammes to the tall blond dancer ahead of her at the bar.

"I don't think so. She's excited too. What are you wearing?"

"I haven't decided yet. Some of the other girls and I are going to raid the costume department after practice. Want to join us?"

"Oh yes! I think that slave costume from Hannibal would be smashing, as long as mother doesn't see me!" Meg stifled the giggle and lowered her head as Madame Giry swept down the line of dancers.

"What about you Maggee? Are you coming to the ball?" Meg asked the dancer before her. Magdalene had been listening to the girls' whispered conversation and throwing furtive glances over her shoulder.

"Of course she's coming. She never seems to leave this place! Don't you have any other friends!" Jammes snickered.

Magdalene opened her mouth to respond but snapped it shut quickly as Madame Giry approached once again.

"That will be all for today ladies. Meg, Jammes, you two will give me another thirty minutes of practice for your wagging tongues."

"Please Madame!" "But Maman!"

"The sooner you begin the sooner you will be finished! Now, one two three and one two three and…."

"Sorry Meg," mouthed Magdalene as she unlaced her toe slippers and slid on a pair of house shoes.

Meg shrugged and rolled her eyes at her luck for having been caught on today of all days. "I will see you at the ball though won't I Maggee?"

"Of course! I just have to take care of something first." Magdalene hefted her practice bag over her shoulder and whisked out of the hall before any of the other girls. As she made her way through the extensive opera corridors she picked up her pace. She was nearly running by the time she reached her dressing room. Throwing her bag into the corner she dropped on all fours and frantically started searching beneath what furniture she had.

"George! George where are you!"

Since her arrival at the Opera Populaire not long ago, Magdalene had made few friends. She kept mainly to herself, not because she was unfriendly, but for fear of discovery.

Raised by her mother, Magdalene had grown to love the arts through her mother's teachings. They had lived in a small village near Brest along the shores of the Bay of Biscay. Her mother had been a painter and an avid lover of music. Magdalene spent her early days dancing around and around her mother as she painted on the beach, singing songs she'd heard from traveling troupes of gypsies and entertainers that passed through the area. Her mother had fondly called her 'my little muse' and told her tales of when she would grow up to be a spectacular singer and light up the Parisian stage. Her early education had been thorough. She learned to read and write, sketch and read music, play fundamental piano and the conjugations of most European languages. She would learn the harsher lessons of life in her teen years.

Magdalene's mother had begun to grow ill in her sixteenth year. Her father had died in the war and left the two with a small nest egg. They sold what they could and carried with them the rest of their belongings as she bade farewell to her beloved shores and traveled to Paris to seek treatment for her ailing mother. Magdalene had been torn when they had to leave. She begged her mother to stay near the bay breezes, believing them to be far more healing than the dirty city air and the antiseptic hospitals, but the draw of modernization and the potential for a cure had tipped the scales and she found herself living in small lodgings near the hospital where her mother was admitted. Time would show that her mother had developed cancer. She spent two years watching her mother die slowly, spending the remainder of their funds on comfort care and a small plot of earth in a nearby cemetery. She hadn't the money for a proper headstone and in its stead she planted a rose bush.

She had then found herself with nothing. No money, no family and no place to go. It was by chance that she had passed by the Opera Populaire that fateful day. 'Open Auditions' the placard had read. The stage, her mother's dream of her becoming a singer. Was it a sign? What did she have to lose? She had never been formally trained in dance but would her inherent grace be enough? It had been. She was awarded a small role as part of the ballet corp. "No leading roles yet, mother, but at least I have a toe shoe in the door."

"George! Come out, George!" Magdalene crawled over to the small divan along the wall and yanked the afghan and pillow out from underneath. No George. Since her appointment to the ballet corp. Magdalene had been secretly staying at the opera house night and day. The dormitories that the Opera once used to house its chorus and ballet corp. had been seized during the war and used as public housing. They had been damaged during the siege and had yet to be repaired. It was no longer common practice to live and learn at the opera, but Magdalene had little choice. She had no other place to go after the day was through and found it remarkably easy to simply sleep in her dressing quarters, slipping in and out of that wing of the opera house in the morning and evening without being noticed. It was in this way that she was able to save the small stipend she received for performances for food and clothing.

She should have counted herself lucky, not being caught trespassing after hours, but she never seemed to know when enough was enough. That's when she had met George. Magdalene had been out buying supplies one evening and found herself hurrying down the Rue Scribe back to the opera before the doors were locked for the evening. It was raining, the kind of rain that you couldn't avoid, the kind that drenched you to the skin as soon as you stepped out into it. Squinting through the deluge, Magdalene made out the shape of an oncoming brougham, its dim lamp struggling to light the way. Magdalene turned her head and kept close to the wall of the Opera house to avoid being splashed by the muddy water that overfilled the gutters. She was startled by the sight of two yellow, gleaming lights peering back at her through the iron gates along the alley. Eyes, she was being watched!

Magdalene stopped in her tracks and wiped the rain from her brow in order to see better. She bent low and came closer to the gate but could see nothing but the yellow glowing eyes in the darkness. With her forehead nearly pressed against the iron bars, she was unprepared for the eyes to suddenly lurch forward toward her. Gasping she fell backward onto the sidewalk spilling the contents of her satchel. She lost sight of the glowing eyes when an animal of some sort leapt from between the bars of the iron gate, over her prone form and into the street. The heart breaking sound of injury met her ears and she knew the brougham had not stopped. Turning around, Magdalene found the injured kitten lying only feet from where her outstretched hands had caught her fall. It was breathing hard and mewling plaintively, its rear leg twisted at an unnatural angle. "Oh no! Oh no no no!" Magdalene scooped the sodden kitten up and quickly checked it for other injuries. She gently deposited the little animal in her satchel to keep it out of the rain and abandoning the items that had rolled across the sidewalk ran with her new cargo the rest of the way back.

She had named the little kitten George. His splinted hind leg had healed well under Magdalene's care and sooner rather than later he was causing mischief. Pets were definitely not allowed in the opera house, especially pets that belonged to individuals living permanently in their dressing rooms. George had had more than one close encounter with the Head of the stage-hands, Joseph Bouquet. Bouquet hated cats and had chased the striped tabby out of the flies on numerous occasions cursing his species. George often went out into the opera house at night to hunt mice in the cellars but was always curled up on Magdalene's chest by morning, purring contentedly. This morning he had not been.

"Oh George, if you've gotten yourself into trouble again, I don't know what I'll do!" It was the truth, George had been one of her only friends and she simply couldn't do without him. Meg Giry had been her other friend. They had met during Magdalene's first rehearsal with the corp. Being the daughter of the ballet mistress, Magdalene had been hesitant to converse much with her at first, but Meg had proven even more mischievous than little George. Meg regaled her with tales of the Opera Ghost and the mysterious happenings around the opera. Some tales had been frightening and others hilarious. It seemed that the resident ghost held a measure of control over the management and even had a private box. During performances, Magdalene often found herself glancing up toward Box Five. She had never been superstitious and often laughed at the other ballet rats as they compared and traded their good luck tokens, but was always wary of the unknown. The box in question was not far from the corridor that housed her dressing room and she routinely passed it. It was not out of the ordinary at all, yet she never entered it. It seemed she was incapable of that one act of trespass.

"Well, perhaps I'll find you on the way to the ball. You can't resist a buffet," Magdalene sighed. Her missing kitten was putting a damper on one of her favorite nights of the year. Magdalene loved All Hallows Eve. The idea that for one night out of the year she could become something, someone else without question, made her smile. A night that she could forget her past and everything she lacked and make believe she was a princess or a fairy or an angel.

Or a monkey.

Magdalene gaped at the disaster that was the costume department. The ballet corp. must have swept through after rehearsal seizing any acceptable costume from previous productions. The only complete costume Magdalene could find that would fit her was that of a Persian Monkey. Well, it was something different.

Magdalene donned the little red velvet fez and vest combo. She laughed at the furry tail attached to the pants and clanged the tiny brass symbols together as she inspected herself in the mirror. She pulled her shoulder length auburn hair back into a pony tail and slid on the headband and ears that completed the look. "Jammes is going to have a field day with this one" she thought wryly to herself as she made her way to the entrance hall. She was excited to the see the gypsy tumblers, she hadn't watched a performance like that since her days on the Bay.


	2. Box Five

Erik leaned back in the shadows of Box Five. He had been drawn out by the prospect of watching the tumblers as well. The gypsy band was not nearly as large as the troupe that he had spent part of his woebegone childhood with and looked as though life on the road had not been kind to them since the war. Erik assumed they had been desperate to accept an invitation to perform in the city. Gypsy bands favored the smaller villages of the countryside, not the metropolitan areas. Still the members of society to which this sort of entertainment was novelty rained coins upon them, making it well worth their while.

Erik's gaze drifted over the sea of humanity milling about his Opera House, sullying it with their presence. In his earlier years he would attend these functions. Of course he needed no costume. These were times when he could walk among the Parisian elite and often run into another dressed as "The Opera Ghost." This evening he counted no less than five individuals in varying manner of costume chasing members of the ballet corp. around the main auditorium. Erik had decided against actually attended this year alleging that he was too old for such nonsense. "Too old," he scoffed at himself. He was barely in his thirties but held the spiteful resentment of a man twice his age.

Casting a final glance over the crowd before retiring to his cellar, intent on spending the remainder of the evening composing his recently neglected music, his eye was caught by sudden frantic movements below. Something small, with a tail, was being chased closely by something slightly larger, with a tail, being pursued at length by something large and ugly with an eye patch.

"What's this?" Erik found his interest caught for the moment by the circuit being sprinted through the auditorium.


	3. Flight of the Feline

Magdalene was having a splendid time! She had caught up with Meg before the gypsies had begun their performance and together they had a front row seat for the festivities. Meg was shocked that Magdalene knew by heart some of the folk songs the gypsies performed and had sung along with them in merry tune. Little Jammes was not far off with some of the other dancers sniggering about Magdalene's choice of costume and took turns sneaking up behind her to tug on her tail. She laughed it off saying "What good is having a tail if one can't give it a yank now and again!"

"She's just jealous because a monkey can sing better than she can!" Meg laughed, "Honestly though, I didn't know you could sing. Why have you never tried out for a vocal role?"

"I don't know, I just hate to be noticed I guess. It scares me. I could never sing in front of an audience, I'd be petrified!"

After the performance, the two girls skirted Madame Giry through the crowd. She had caught sight of her offspring clad in the skimpy slave's costume from Hannibal and looked livid. Meg knew she was in for a telling off but found no need to invite it so early in the evening. They made a game of dodging behind marble columns and statues to avoid her keen eye, making sure Magdalene's tail did not give away their position. They found that the opera house had many many hiding spots. Alcoves hidden behind tapestries, depressions in the façade of the walls concealed behind the large columns of the entry way. One could literally pass through the opera without being seen if they so desired.

"Maggee, I wonder if we will run into the Opera Ghost back here!" Meg whispered to her friend as they snuck down the wall of the auditorium behind a velvet curtain. Meg always called her Maggee. She told her once that her given name was as much a mouthful as her own, Marguerite. Magdalene liked her nickname and often introduced herself as such.

"That's ridiculous! Why would a ghost need to hide behind a curtain? Don't be silly!"

"I'm not being silly! Ghosts can't strut around for everyone to see all the time, can you even imagine! The Opera Ghost likes to stay hidden and watch the workings of the opera in secret. Mother told me."

Magdalene was often taken aback at her friend's unmovable belief in the supernatural. There was a time when her own mother had lulled her to sleep with ghost stories and mysterious tales of dancing goblins kidnapping pretty young girls to become their goblin queens if they did not mind what their mothers said. Meg's mother, it seemed, was the source of all knowledge pertaining to the resident phantom. Meg would never disclose how she knew of him to such lengths, but if there was ever a question regarding the Phantom, it was to Meg that all the ballet girls ran. Madame Giry herself rarely told tales to the girls. Instead she only gave them cryptic warnings to stay as a group when passing though seemingly empty corridors of the Opera and to never, NEVER stray into unknown territory. Magdalene knew she was referring to the many labyrinthine levels of cellars that lay buried under the opera house. All manner of creatures could be found down there; from rats to rat catchers, draft chasers and door closers, devils and ghosts. From the way Madame Giry spoke, Lucifer himself resided in the bowels of the Opera.

They came to the edge of the curtain and were contemplating their next move. They were situated near the hors-d'oeuvre table and Magdalene idly considered snatching a bite to eat. She realized, with a growl from her belly, that with all the excitement she hadn't eaten since breakfast. Both girls had seen the fantastic assortment of concoctions that had been catered for the event and agreed that if the coast was clear they would imbibe.

Magdalene was nearest the edge of the curtain and tentatively peered around. The table was a mere four feet from them and to her horror there sat upon it none other than her rogue feline. George was perched on a corner, his bottlebrush tail whipping back and forth in rapture as he licked the caviar garnish from a wheel of brie.

"Oh no!" Magdalene muttered.

"What is it! Is it my mother?" Meg frantically whispered behind her and stretched to see over her friend's head.

Magdalene's eyes swept up the table to the only other person nearby, Joseph Bouquet.

"Oh no no no!"

Bouquet was looking to be in foul temper. He was dressed as a pirate, complete with eye patch and captains hat. He had a fake wooden leg poking out of the jacket pocket, obviously abandoned in order to glutton himself at the food table. His swagger suggested that he had already partaken of a decent amount of wine. His costume was littered with green feathers and down that seemed to come from what appeared to be a ruined feather duster perched upon in right shoulder.

Magdalene clicked her tongue to engage the cat's attention. George raised his head and turned amber eyes on her. Had the moment not been so dangerous she would have laughed. George's whiskers were smeared with icing; his ears twitched spraying flecks of pink mousse across the plates of fruit and cheese. Fixed in the caked on sweets were tiny green feathers, the same feathers that clung to Bouquet's jacket. George looked as though he were wearing his own Halloween masque.

The cat stood and turned, preparing to jump to the floor and greet his human companion. As he did so his long tail brushed against an empty champagne flute tipping it with a crystalline clink into several others. Bouquet's head snapped in the direction of the sound and his face clouded with rage.

"YOU! I'LL SKIN YOU FOR THIS!" he bellowed, pointing a stubby finger at the feathery mess on his shoulder.

Dropping his plate, he lunged for the cat, spilling a full platter of strawberries and grapes. George tore off into the crowd sending shrieks of panic from startled ladies in long hooping skirts. Magdalene dashed after him, hot on his tail with Bouquet hot on hers.

She followed the terrified cat through rows of velvet covered seats and along the far wall of the theatre. He seemed to know where he was going and Magdalene was glad he didn't turn back into the crowd. She chanced a glance over her shoulder and was relieved that Bouquet had fallen behind, far too large and out of shape to keep up with the dancing monkey and the cat. George sprinted up the side steps of the stage and into the curtained wings. The symbols that came with her costume clanged loudly as they swung from her wrists and she scrambled to quiet them as she ascended the steps as well and disappeared into the wings of the stage.

Magdalene's eyes took a moment to adjust in the darkness. She cooed for the cat to come out of hiding and soon she spied the green reflection of her little friend's eyes poking out from between two flats. They blinked up at her and came closer. Scooping the shaking feline up in her arms she too retreated between the scenery flats and waited. Moments later Bouquet burst through the curtains, huffing and puffing. He was brandishing the peg leg of his costume like a club and Magdalene felt cold fear for her life grip her. She had unwittingly trapped herself and George where they hid. The flats backed up against the stone wall and the only way out was how she had come in. She said a silent prayer for something, anything to distract Bouquet's attention long enough to flee. His squinting eyes scanned the area and rose into the flies. "I've got you now," he growled, spying shadowed movement above him. Grasping the rung of the nearest ladder he began to climb.

This was her chance to escape. She too had seen the fortunate shadow and had hoped that Bouquet would pursue it. His back was turned from her as he climbed into the flies and she took the opportunity to slide out from her hiding spot and slip into the backstage area, only then did she dare to breathe.

"Look at you! You're filthy! And what about all these feathers? What was that thing? A stuffed parrot? Maybe it was before you got to it!" Magdalene grinned and nuzzled the kitten's nose with her own.

She exited the backstage area, past the diva, La Carlotta's dressing room, and began the long trek to her own. Her dressing room was in a secluded wing of the opera, much avoided by the superstitious lot of ballet rats. She preferred it that way. Fewer eyes to see her sneaking in and out in the early mornings and late evenings. She heaved a sigh and started the journey. The opera was heavily populated tonight due to the ball and avoiding detection while smuggling a sticky pink and green feathered cat would take luck. She employed her new skill of finding hiding places among the opera's architecture as she made her way. She couldn't help but marvel at the fact that the very edifice seemed to be structured for clandestine movement from one place to another. How had she never noticed that before?


	4. A Promise Kept

Erik recognized the first creature now. It was the brown striped tabby he had encountered on numerous occasions hunting rats and mice in his cellars. The cat that he had first seen near the gates along the Rue Scribe.

It had been pouring rain. Erik noticed with some unease the water level in the lake rising. Taking the boat across the lake to the opposite shore, he docked it. He had been on his way up to one of the upper cellars to check the valves that controlled the drains that poured off excess water into the Seine when he first heard the pathetic little kitten mewling. No ordinary human would have been able to hear it. The kitten was curled up just inside the iron bars of the gate, obviously seeking sanctuary from the driving rain. Too afraid to brave the deluge but equally afraid to brave the unknown darkness of the cellars, it had hovered between, shivering with wet and cold.

Erik always had a much greater love for animals than humans. He knew the poor creature wouldn't survive without care. He crouched down in the shadows and crooned softly to the kitten to calm it before approaching. It was at that unfortunate moment that another pitiful sodden creature happened by. The girl had obviously caught a glimpse of something behind the grate. She stopped and peered inside, unseeing. The kitten immediately leapt to its feet feeling trapped. Still unwilling to brave the darkness he crouched down, readying for flight. Erik saw the creature's rear wiggle as it braced its rear claws into the soft earth and tensed its body. He knew the terrified cat would be struck down by the passing brougham and he instinctively lunged forward to grab it. He had been a moment too late.

The girl's eyes widened and she fell without grace onto the sidewalk. The kitten used her as a springboard, launching into the street and under the carriage wheels. Erik hissed his displeasure when he heard the animal's cry of pain. He was reaching for the gate's latch to rescue the cat when he heard the sobbing of the girl.

"Oh no! Oh no no no!"

She was already crawling through the muddied street to the prostrate form of the kitten. She picked it up gently, as if fearing to break it further. He recognized her now. She was a member of the ballet corp, not a bad dancer but seemed to lack the conviction to excel. She tucked the kitten in her satchel and ran off toward the main entrance to the opera. Looking down, Erik surveyed the items that she had abandoned on the sidewalk in favor of aiding the kitten. They were mostly food items, spoiled by the rain, and toiletries, she had obviously been out shopping for necessities. A glint of gold caught his eye and he reached down to pick it up. It was a small tarnished locket. The loop that once allowed the locked to hang by a chain had worn thin and broken. Popping the locket open, Erik saw two faces looking back at him. One was a handsome man with light eyes in uniform, the other, an astonishing raven-haired beauty with dark eyes and an uncommonly serene expression. He snapped the locket closed and pocketed it.

He recognized the cat; he could only assume that the monkey chasing it was the girl in costume. With distaste he also recognized the third contender in the race, Joseph Bouquet.

The man was a thorn in Erik's side. Joseph Bouquet was toted as something of a legend among the younger members of the chorus. He was the only man to come face to face with the Phantom of the Opera. Indeed he had quite literally run into Erik in the flies one evening. The man had wet himself with fear as he ran away but that's not the story he told the awe inspired children. He described Erik as a monster without a face ruthlessly hunting unwary trespassers in his domain. Bouquet described himself as being exceptionally fearless, frightening the phantom away and securing another night of safety for his precious ballet tarts. It had earned him several baisers de merci and he was awarded with several girlish pecks upon his whiskered cheeks.

Since that day Bouquet had been relentless. It seemed that since he survived one encounter with the Phantom, he was invincible and sought him out everywhere. Bouquet would follow any shadow, any unidentified sound, any movement caught from the corner of his eye in search of Erik. It was really quite tiresome. Erik would not be seen again unless he chose to be.

He watched as the cat fled into the wings of the stage followed by the girl. Bouquet had been slowed by the throngs of people in his way. He knew Bouquet's temper and realized that he would have no qualms about killing the cat and possible hurting the girl. He didn't care so much about the girl, but Erik would be damned to let an innocent animal be harmed at the hands of that great lummox.

He swiftly exited Box Five through the trap door cleverly concealed within the marble column. He shinnied up the hollow pathway until he reached the inside of the great domed ceiling. Skipping over dusty rafters with practiced skill he lifted a grate and dropped down on to the catwalks above the stage. He arrived in time to watch the girl coax the frightened cat out of hiding, clutch it to her chest, and slip behind a flat just as Bouquet burst through the red velvet curtains, swinging a blunt object like a Neanderthal.

"Stupid girl," Erik thought, "That's no proper hiding spot." She was mere feet from Bouquet, he would spot her any second, and she'd left herself no route of escape. Without wasting another moment, Erik sped down the length of the cat walk swirling his black cloak in his wake and disappearing again in the darkness. "That should get his attention."

It had. Bouquet was trudging his way up to the flies, sweating like a stock pig and cursing under his breath. Erik watched the girl and cat slide out of the paneling and edge toward the backstage area, fearful eyes fixed on Bouquet's back. The last he saw of them was the monkey's tail whipping around the door frame and he knew they would be safe enough. He returned his full attention to Bouquet.

Erik was concealed behind a panel of lever controls that could raise and lower the back drops and curtains. His long, slender fingers idly caressed a wooden lever. It would drop the panel that Bouquet was currently leaning on to the stage below, taking the stinking ruffian with it. Erik licked his lips and imagined the sound Bouquet would make as he struck the hardwood of the stage thirty feet below. His fist tightened around the lever cranking it back several inches but not far enough to engage the counter-weight. He hesitated.

"Grrrah! Dammit!" Erik slammed the lever forward again. No killing. No killing unless it is in self-defense. It seemed a life time ago that he made that promise to the Daroga. He had been true to his word thus far. Erik sighed in a defeated manner and rose to his feet. Reaching above his head he hefted himself back into the rafters and returned to his box. This evening had been trying and he longed to return to his sanctuary below the opera house, away from the thrum of humans and the garish light and decoration. He knew the wing that housed his box would be relatively empty and opted to take the hidden stair behind the pilaster adjacent to the hall corridor. There was another path back to his home in that wing as well. The dressing room farthest from the main corridor held a large gilded mirror. He had fitted the mirror with a counter-weight turning mechanism years ago for reasons he could barely remember. He hadn't employed that route for just as many years for it was a long and winding route from the mirror to the banks of the underground lake. He made a mental note to oil the apparatus to assure its silent maneuverings in the future.

Erik took one last look over the party and turned his back. There had been a time in his life that he wanted nothing more than to be one of them, to feel normal and have a normal life. He closed his eyes and forced the thought from his mind. No more. He didn't need anyone; he had his music, his Don Juan to fill his hours. He had secured a tidy income from the management to fund any research endeavors he cared to pursue in his laboratory. He had a comfortable home and no ties to bind him. The pranks he once enjoyed playing on the opera patrons and employees now bored him, he no longer wished to be a ghost. He wished only to be Erik and to be left alone.


	5. Scent of Fear

Magdalene had made splendid progress. The only close call thus far had been Madame Giry on the third floor. She had been briskly striding down the hall holding the peacock face mask like a riding crop stiffly at her side. Just as she was passing the tapestry that Magdalene and George were concealed behind, she stopped rather suddenly. The feathers adorning her salt and pepper hair quivered as she seemed to scent the air and her sharp features turned toward the tapestry. The girl held her breath. Magdalene firmly believed that Madame Giry had a sixth sense, that or she could smell fear. In an odd motion, the ballet instructor raised the hand holding her mask to eye-level, the other hand slowly reaching for the fringed edge of the cloth. Heart hammering in her chest, Magdalene prepared to look as innocent as possible. Given she was obviously hiding, in a borrowed stage costume, with a filthy illegal cat; she couldn't have looked very convincing.

The echo of Meg's airy laugh, like music to Magdalene's ears, came drifting up the stairway. Madame Giry recognized it as well and immediately turned toward the sound. With renewed purpose she strode off in search of her daughter. Breathing a sigh of relief Magdalene had a moment of regret that her friend was about to be caught by her fuming mother. Her survival instinct chimed in, "Better her than me!"

"This adventure's over, George." Magdalene stepped out from behind the tapestry and briskly made her way toward her dressing room. "What a long day this has been." She had begun to feel the fatigue that inevitably comes after an adrenaline rush. She had had several today and was rather drained. All she wanted was to reach the quiet and solitude of her dressing quarters and put the day behind her.

She trotted nimbly down the carpeted hall. All was silent before her. She could still hear the sound of revelers downstairs and she turned her head to make sure Madame Giry had not doubled back. Rounding a corner she slammed squarely into something very solid.

The breath was knocked from her body with the force of the impact; she couldn't squeeze out the startled gasp as she looked up and realized that she had not struck a some_thing_, she had struck a some_one_.


	6. An Unexpected Meeting

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**Author's note**: To everyone who has reviewed my story so far I can't thank you enough! This is my very first fiction and I appreciate all the inspiration to continue. For the George fans out there, he is actually based on my own cat by the same name. He is sitting smugly next to me right now wondering why I haven't uploaded his picture on my bio page yet.  
On to chapter 6! I'm a bit unsure of this chapter but we'll see what you all make of it. Enjoy!

Oh and I guess I should mention that I obviously do not own any of Leroux's amazing character or POTO in general. I'm just borrowing them.

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Erik waited as Madame Giry passed the door to Box Five. He watched her give an impromptu curtsey and nod of her head as she passed. He was sure that she did not realize he was present and wondered if she curtsied to the box door every time she passed. She was a good woman, very stern and serious, but good. She had served as his mediator for a great many years and in turn he had supplemented her income though influence over the Opera managers.

Erik exited, closing the door behind him. His steps were silent as he made his way down the hall. His fingertips brushed against the wall as he paced out the correct distance. The Pilaster stood out from the wall seventeen inches. It looked no different than any other that lined the hallways of the opera. Hanging on either side were embroidered tapestries. Slide behind the tapestry to the right, apply pressure to the paneling along the side of the pilaster and it would glide inward revealing a narrow stair leading down. This was his common route to and from his private box and he knew it well. He had just approached the corner when a small form barreled around the corner and struck him full in the chest, staggered backwards and made a choking, squeaky noise.

The girl. How had he not heard her coming? Why was she in this wing of the opera? And why had she not yet fled in terror? Looking down at her he noticed she wore red dance slippers, they would have made her steps light and silent in combination with her slight frame and dance training. She was still wearing that ridiculous costume. The cat seemed completely indifferent to the sudden impact and continued to lick caviar from between his claws. He was sticky and pink and looked dreadful but the girl clutched at him as if she feared Erik would snatch him away.

"Excusez-moi, monsieur. I am very sorry. I did not see you."

Erik didn't speak or move. He did not offer the girl his hand to steady her. He stood and stared at her with impassiveness. The girl's eyes darted from left to right as if making sure they were alone and came to rest upon his face again. There was something strangely familiar about her features. Her eyes were large, brown and glassy; she looked as if she were ready to burst into tears. For a moment, Erik felt something close to sympathy for her. She obviously was trying to spare the creature in her arms from a fate at the hands of opera officials or the likes of Bouquet. He could appreciate that if nothing else.

"Do not be afraid."

Her lips parted slightly and she drew in a long breath. They stared at each other in silence a moment longer. The spell was broken as the large brown kitten in her arms suddenly and unceremoniously leapt from her grasp and onto Erik's shoulder.

"George!" she cried, as she attempted to catch him in the act. He had been too quick for her and was now kneading his claws into Erik's dress jacket.

George? She named it George? In an odd way the name suited him. He was a ragamuffin of a cat. Erik reached a hand up and stroked the fur between the cat's ears. George's eyes half-closed in contentment and he hunkered down on his shoulder purring luxuriously.

"Je suis désolé. He gets a bit overly friendly sometimes. I can take him back." She reached out to retrieve him, expecting him to lean forward so she could reach his tall shoulders.

Erik made no movement to remove the cat from his shoulder, but continued to scratch his ears.

The girl cleared her throat and dropped her arms again awkwardly. "It's really quite marvelous."

"Mademoiselle?"

"Your costume. It's the most convincing Opera Ghost I've seen here tonight."

Ah. She thought he was a costumed reveler, which explained her calm demeanor. Erik was used to the mere thought of the Opera Ghost to send thrills of terror down the spines of young dancers and singers, sending them scurrying away to their herds to tell exaggerated tales of how they had escaped near death at the cold hands of the Phantom. She had made no motion to flee. She had straightened up to her full height now, the quiver in her lip had disappeared and the tears that had threatened to spill were gone.

"Merci. And you are?" Erik replied as he inclined his head.

"Why, I am a Persian Monkey!" To illustrate she performed a pirouette and clinked the brass symbols together with an impish grin.

Erik could not suppress a lopsided smirk at the antics before him. "I meant your name, mademoiselle."

The girl's cheeks flushed crimson when she realized her folly. "Oh… of course. I am called Maggee, monsieur."

"You are called Maggee, but what is your name?" He was playing with her now. He knew he should have dismissed the girl ages ago and returned to his lair as he had planned but something stayed him. He tarried, having a novel conversation with her. She spoke to him just like he was simply another human being and not the reclusive, living ghost that he was. He was not ready to let her walk away. Not yet.

She was flustered yet again, but a moment passed and she composed herself. With a cock of her eyebrow she replied, "You are called the Opera Ghost and I am called Maggee. I do not need to reveal my true name since I was never graced with yours."

"But you did not ask for my name."

"The Opera Ghost is a gentleman! A lady should not need to ask!" she replied with severity.

"A gentleman you say! I was under the impression that the Opera Ghost was to be feared. He is a menace, a monster."

"Oh heavens no! He is definitely a gentleman. He is polite in speech, only appears wearing formal evening wear and I hear he is an exceptional musician!" Her eyes lit up at the thought of it all as she ticked off the Phantom's gentlemanly qualities on her fingers. Her gaze returned to Erik and she looked him up and down as if critiquing him carefully. "You have the proper attire, monsieur, but your manner is all wrong." As an afterthought she added, "The mask is a nice touch, however. It adds an air of mystery about you."

Erik stared at her for a moment. He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or be outraged. Who was this girl?

"Je mendie votre pardon, mademoiselle," he replied with a deep bow that nearly upset George's balance upon his shoulder, "my name is Erik."

What was he doing? What was he doing! He had never given his true name to anyone since coming to live at the opera. Madame Giry didn't even know his true name.

"Erik."

It had been barely more than a whisper and yet the way his name sounded on her lips stirred something deep within him; a foreign sensation that he could not describe.

The sound of a loud, course voice echoing down the hallway brought them both back to reality. Their game was over.

"Please, monsieur, I must take George away now! Monsieur Bouquet threatened to restring the second chair viola with him if he is caught!"

The genuine panic in her voice along with the distasteful thought of Bouquet and Erik was once again irritated. If there was a menace in this opera house, it was him.

"Worry not; I will make sure he is not found."

"Uh…that is very kind of you but if I can just make it back to my dressing room we'll both be out of harm's way." The girl turned and peered around the corner. "He's just angry because George destroyed part of his costume this evening. He'll soon forget. Out of sight, out of mind."

She turned back again and gasped. Erik watched her from behind the tapestry. He had slipped behind it while her back was turned without so much as a whisper to betray him. Her eyes were wide with confusion and shock as she looked up and down the corridor. She took a halting step forward and seemed ready to run when she was forcefully seized from behind.


	7. Hear No Evil, See No Evil

A/N: Don't own anything! Really!

Once again, thank you thank you thank you everyone for my reviews! I'm always so excited to check my email and see that I have reviews to read! For those of you who have commented that Magdalene is a bit childish, well that's because she is. In many ways, Christine was too. She will go through a period of maturation, perhaps aided by a new ally! ;-) She will, of course, maintain her inherent quirkiness.  
Hope you all enjoy Chapter 7!

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Vanished. He had completely vanished. Magdalene had not even felt a current of air to denote his movement. It was as if he had simply melted into shadow. She looked up and down the corridor. George was gone too. After a moment's hesitance she realized that she must also flee or the consequences would be severe. Before she was able to sprint she felt rough hands close around her shoulders.

She was spun around and slammed roughly into the stone wall. Her head struck the unyielding surface and she briefly saw white stars. As her vision cleared, the unpleasant sight of Bouquet's face inches from her own swam into focus. He had her pinned to the wall, a thick arm held tightly across her throat.

"Where is that rodent! I want him now!" Bouquet growled. His breath smelled of stale wine and Magdalene suppressed a gag.

"Monsieur Bouquet, I do not know what you are talking about!" she stammered. Bouquet's arm pressed tighter against her throat and she felt her air supply diminish. Her hands clawed at his arm but she was no match for the laborer's brute strength.

"Don't lie to me you little tart! I saw you!" he spat, "You stole that cat away and hid him from me."

"Please, monsieur! We are not allowed animals in the opera house. Why would I risk my position here by doing something like that?" Magdalene's voice was hoarse as she was only allowed shallow gasping breaths now.

Bouquet's eyes narrowed and he showed a line of yellow teeth. "I'm not sure why you would risk your position here. I would think that you would have a lot to lose."

Her heart stopped. What did he mean by 'a lot to lose'? Was it possible that he knew her secret? She shuddered at the thought of being turned out on the streets again. The City of Light was much darker than most people saw on the surface. She would not last long alone and unprotected.

She stopped struggling and her hands fell limp to her sides. Bouquet loosened his hold on her but did not let go.

"Oh yes, girlie. Old Joseph is not as stupid as you may think. I see many things that go on in this opera. No one's secrets are safe here. The very walls have eyes."

Magdalene visibly paled. She swallowed hard against the lump that had risen in her throat and tasted copper. She had always been so careful, so clandestine in her movements in and out of the opera. Only on the rainy night that she had rescued the kitten had she thrown caution to the wind and swept through the halls to her dressing room without paying heed to anything or anyone around her. It had been so late that night and the weather so foul that she was sure everyone had departed already. She had been sure until now.

It couldn't be. He must be bluffing. Hell, he was drunk right now, how could she trust what he was saying? Magdalene attempted to collect herself but Bouquet's far too immediate presence was keeping her from thinking clearly. Panic was clouding her thoughts.

"Perhaps you can persuade me to keep my silence," Bouquet shifted his hold on her, holding one hand to her throat while the other began to twirl a lock of hair that had come loose from her ponytail. He licked his lips and gave her a knowing smile.

Oh. Hell. No.

She felt a bead of cold sweat trickle down her temple. She couldn't think straight. She'd had this problem since childhood. Whenever she was extremely anxious or frightened she would lose the capacity to function at all. Her mother had told her that when faced with such a situation, to find on thing, one idea, and focus every thought on it. During her first performance at the Opera Populaire, when she stood in the wings with Meg and the others, hands sweating and mouth dry, she envisioned her mother's face. Noelle LaFreniere was the picture of beauty and serenity. Magdalene saw her quite clearly in her mind's eye as she had danced, smiling with encouragement. As the routine concluded, her mother's eye's shown with pride before the image dissolved. It was at that moment that she knew she had made the right decision joining the opera; not only because it would have made her mother proud, but because Magdalene felt a little bit of Noelle lived on in her art. The very spirit of the theatre itself would have captivated her mother. And she was not about to lose that.

She felt Bouquet's finger leave the lock of hair and travel along her jaw.

"Monsieur, you will maintain your distance." Her voice was piteously weak. Focus, her mind raced with images to center on but nothing was working.

"Eh? What's that, missy?" Bouquet's finger left her jaw and trailed down her neck moving lower.

With more force now and through gritted teeth, "You will remove your hand, step away and act like a gentleman!"

A gentleman. The racing images in Magdalene's head stopped abruptly. The masked man. The man named Erik.

"Perhaps I don't feel much like a gentleman tonight." Bouquet had made no movement to follow her commands.

"That doesn't surprise me. Monsieur Bouquet, however you will do as I command or I shall be forced to call for assistance."

Bouquet's greasy laugh rung through the vacant corridor. "Assistance! Who would assist the likes of you! There ain't nobody near 'nuff to hear you anyway."

"Ah but there is, monsieur." All timidity was gone from her countenance. Magdalene was no longer the cornered animal but the hunter. She spread a predatory grin. "I do believe you are acquainted with him as well. Surely you know of the Opera Ghost?"

Bouquet's mirth vanished in an instant. "You're talkin' crap," but his voice held a quake of insecurity.

"We're quite close actually, first name basis," Magdalene inspected the fingernails on her right hand in a nonchalant way, "and I know for a fact that he is nearby at this very moment."

Bouquet was now the one that seemed nervous. His head turned in all directions as if he expected the Phantom to materialize out of thin air before him. Magdalene continued to grin and dropped her hand to her side once again. "You tell me how you know that, girlie!"

"Why I thought you would be familiar with the signs."

"What signs! Spill it!" The hand at her throat tightened slightly.

"There are three signs that prelude the Opera Ghost. First, there is a chill in the air. Do you feel it?" There were no boiler vents in the corridors, only in the rooms, and the near November air had cooled the empty hall. "Then there is a still silence." The orchestra in the main hall had concluded a song and had yet to begin another. The echoed silence was opportune.

"It is awfully quiet…and cold…" Bouquet's voice trailed off. It was his turn to sweat.

"Finally there is the third sign." Magdalene found herself enjoying this a bit too much. "The silence gives way to a distant roll of thunder."

"I don't hear thunder." Bouquet's hand did not loosen at her throat.

"Are you sure? Listen hard." His face bunched up as he concentrated on listening.

"I think… I think I hear something."

"As do I."

CRASH!

Magdalene had brought the two cymbals together with surprising strength on either side of his head. The clamor was loud enough to hurt her own ears and she could only imagine the sound that had just reverberated through Bouquet's skull. He had dropped his hold on her and staggered backwards clutching his ears. His boot caught the edge of the floor runner and he fell with a thump to the floor.

Upon release, Magdalene had slid down the wall to her knees. Her hands smarted from the cymbals' wooden handles and she wrung them together, as she stood. She surveyed the scene and realized that she must look decidedly evil, standing there wringing her hands over the supine form of a man she had just knocked out. The very picture of evil with a furry monkey tail. She had the sudden impulse to laugh maniacally just to complete the image.

The laugh died in her throat when she realized that someone else was already laughing. It had been so quiet at first, she had barely noticed it. She glanced down at Bouquet, but he was still quite unconscious. The deep laugh grew until it was rumbling off the walls, echoing down the corridor. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Magdalene heard it next her, above her, behind her. She even felt it ring through her.

Bouquet moaned and began to stir once again. Magdalene wasted no more time and fled down the hall toward her dressing room, pursued the entire way by the insidious laugh.


	8. Revenge

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**A/N:** I love my reviewers! They are my favorite people! By the way, I now accept anonymous reviews too. Keep it constructive; if you hate my story then don't read it, for pity's sake! If you like it, then by all means send me a review! Good reviews inspire me to siton my tooshieand write while stuffing myself with Rice Krispy treats and Dr. Pepper!  
Don't own POTO, never will.

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The brute had tossed her around like a rag doll! Apparently he wasn't only cruel to innocent animals but to well-meaning young girls too. Erik's eyes narrowed on Bouquet's back. He had her pinned against the hall wall opposite the tapestry; she looked tiny compared to his hulking frame, her eyes wide with fear. The once calm kitten in his arms had become rigid; it too was watching the scene unfold. 

"Please, monsieur! We are not allowed animals in the opera house. Why would I risk my position here by doing something like that?" If that idiot wasn't careful he'd strangle her, she could barely breathe well enough to speak.

"I'm not sure why you would risk your position here. I would think that you would have a lot to lose." Bouquet's words had apparently struck a nerve. Erik watched as the girl's face blanched and she stopped struggling. What was it she was hiding?

The cat's claws unsheathed and a deep rumble had begun vibrating through its chest. Erik glanced down. George's eyes were dilated and fixed on Bouquet, his hackles were raised and the rumble had developed into a low growl. Swiftly, Erik slid the panel door open and deposited the angry feline on the first step, sliding the panel shut again before he could escape and help his mistress. He returned his attention to the girl.

Bouquet was now running his free hand over her in a lewd manner.

"You will remove your hand, step away and act like a gentleman!" My my, she was a stickler for manners. Erik had to admit that he could not condone reprehensible behavior either. Proper French decorum had been bred into him in early childhood by his mother. 'Etiquette is what sets us apart from beasts, Erik. It's what makes us civilized!' Erik could still hear his mother's voice. He fiercely loathed men who did not act properly toward the fairer sex, though he had to admit that most of the ladies employed at the opera were not exactly "fair." Be that as it may, he felt his temper flare as Bouquet brushed away the girl's entreaties for him to stop. His hands balled into fists, fingernails cutting into his palms. He clenched his teeth and felt for the thin rope coil at his belt.

Erik stopped. This was not his concern. He owed the girl nothing; he had already saved her once this evening. In fact she had done nothing but delay his retreat back to the cellars, accuse him of being ungentlemanly and soil the shoulders of his dress jacket with whatever pink residue coated that cat. And yet the novelty of her manner as they had spoken disarmed him. It was he who had not allowed her to take the cat and walk away. Perhaps if he had not stayed her she would have made it to safety and not been caught unawares by Bouquet. He was startled from his thoughts by mention of his name.

"Surely you know of the Opera Ghost?" Erik checked himself. He was still totally concealed behind the tapestry, she had not seen him. Looking out through the weave of the fabric he was surprised to see that the girl was no longer pale and trembling. Her visage had changed completely. She was grinning like a vixen in a chicken coop. The girl was relating the telling signs of the coming of the Opera Ghost, playing upon Bouquet's fears. Erik raised an eyebrow at the thought that distant thunder tolled his presence. Either this girl was a companion of one Meg Giry, teller of tall tales, or she was a fine story teller herself.

Bouquet was easily being taken in by her story. Erik noticed the girl take a vice-like grip upon the handles of both cymbals. Was she really going to…?

CRASH!

Bouquet staggered back and fell to the floor with a thump and a jiggle of his enormous gut. Erik could suppress it no longer. The chuckle that he had tried to bite back at the thought of the girl beating Bouquet about the head with monkey cymbals burst forth into an all out laugh. Through tearing eyes he saw her standing over his body wringing her hands and the image made him laugh harder. She fled down the hall as Bouquet began to stir.

Bouquet's eyes darted around the hall trying to find the source of the echoing laugh. He was pale and sweating, obviously terrified that the Opera Ghost was nearby. Erik slid the panel open to take his leave, still chuckling. It was the opportunity that George had been anticipating. Before Erik had realized it the brown and black blur and sped past him. The furious feline shot out from behind the tapestry and lunged directly at Bouquet who was attempting to get to his feet and flee the sinister laugh that surrounded him.

George pounced, hissing and spitting, and landed heavily on Bouquet's chest. He sank his rear claws in and began to savagely swipe at the man's face and neck.

"Aaargh!" Bouquet screamed in an undignified manner and attempted to pull the cat free from his chest. George however had obtained purchase on the bridge of his nose with his sharp teeth and could not be persuaded to let go. Bouquet reached into his pocket for the peg leg that came with his costume. Swinging it wildly he tried in vain to strike the vicious ball of fur. Sensing danger, George disengaged and leapt free of Bouquet just as the club struck the would-be pirate full in the face.

"Aww dammit to hell!" Bouquet dropped his weapon and ran headlong back down the hall, holding his nose to stem the flow of blood. George was left sitting on his haunches, tail whipping back and forth in ire,watching him retreat. Wiping tears of mirth from his eyes Erik picked up the cat and entered the narrow stairway, sliding the panel shut behind him. He secured it from the inside; Bouquet would no doubt be back to investigate the area and he didn't want unexpected visitors to his home.

He stroked the cat's fur, trying to calm it down again.

"You are a brave one. You certainly did a fine job protecting Mademoiselle…" It was then that Erik realized that the girl had never given him her real name, "…Maggee."

They continued the trek down to the underground lake in silence. Erik placed the cat in the boat and stepped in after him. During the slow voyage across the lake's surface, George dangled a fore leg over the side of the boat and swatted at the surface of the water with a large paw, splashing it around and soaking himself in the process. Erik watched him and was suddenly reminded of the night by the gate on the Rue Scribe. The night he had first seen the girl. Erik recalled the locket he had retrieved from the sidewalk. After returning home that night he had deposited it in his desk and not thought of it since. Surely it would have an inscription; he could discover her name that way.

As they neared the opposite shore, Erik heaved a sigh. The night had certainly been more entertaining than he had anticipated. Little did he know the night was far from over.

Across the lake, sitting idly on the divan in the living room, someone was awaiting his arrival.


	9. Sleepless nights

_A/N: Sorry its been awhile but work's beena killer. I know this chapter is short, but there's two of them! Anyway, enjoy!_

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Magdalene bounded through her dressing room door and slammed it closed behind her. She swiftly locked it with the key and took a step back staring at the heavy oak grain. Spinning around she seized the small chair from her vanity and wedged it securely under the door handle. She was trembling from head to toe; her breath coming in small pants.

What had she done? What had just happened! Had she honestly just attacked Bouquet? No, she had attacked Bouquet and fled from an ethereal laugh… and lost her cat again! She buried her face in her hands and shuffled to the divan on the far wall. Catching a glimpse of movement though her fingers, she startled and jumped back, knocking a framed photograph to the floor. The movement had been nothing more than her own reflection in the large gilt mirror. Magdalene gave a small forced laugh that sounded more like a groan as she examined her reflection. Her ears were askew, the red velvet vest was smeared with pink frosting and the tiny cymbals were bent.

"I'm going to have to fix this before I can return it," She thought. The costume department would probably notice. She doffed the costume and slipped on a long white cotton slip. Taking up the tiny brass cymbals she attempted to bend the dents out of them with little success.

"Oh what's the point? I'll be asked for my resignation tomorrow anyway." Magdalene sighed and hung the costume up in her armoire. Returning to the divan she picked up the photograph from the floor. "Oh mother, I'm sorry. I've ruined everything." Noelle's face stared back at her unblinking. Her mother would not have knocked a man out. Her mother wouldn't have gotten herself in that situation to begin with. Magdalene afforded a small smile as she imagined her mother's voice, 'You become more like your father everyday!' Noelle's daughter may have inherited her graceful features, but it was her father's fiery character that often landed her in trouble.

Magdalene had known Jacques LaFreniere only through photos and her mother's memories. As a young girl she would sit at her mother's feet and listen raptly to stories of how her parents had met and fallen in love. She would enact fantasies of her father battling heroically in the war; a one man army steadfastly defending the homeland from Prussia. Magdalene's heart was broken for the first time at the age of seven the day she and her mother received word that her father had fallen. Thought Jacques LaFreniere had died, his spirit lived on in his daughter.

Magdalene returned the photo to her nightstand and pulled the blanket and pillow from under the small couch. She dimmed the gas lamps in the small and room and curled up in a ball. She didn't want to leave the Opera. She liked her little dressing room, she liked performing in the shows and the sound of the applause, she had friends here and she felt secure. Well, she had felt secure. Magdalene suppressed a shudder at the memory of Bouquet and what he had implied. If he truly knew she had been living at the Opera, why had he never turned her in?

As she lay in her make-shift bed, Magdalene tried to convince herself that Bouquet had been bluffing; that his words had meant nothing more than to frighten her, and frighten her they had. She rolled over and tried to push the thought from her head. She let her mind wander as she always did before she fell asleep. Little George crept into her thoughts and she prayed that he was safe with the strange man.

The man named Erik. Her encounter with him in the corridor had been brief but she doubted she would ever forget it. Magdalene reasoned that he must have been an Opera patron to be invited to the Halloween Masque, but she didn't recall ever seeing him at a performance. Most of the more ubiquitous ballet and chorus members knew all the patrons from their post-performance visits to the back stage area, but she had never heard mention of an Erik.

She closed her eyes and saw his visage again in her mind's eye. He had been quite tall with dark hair and very green eyes. But his looks had not made as much of an impression as his voice had. Magdalene had no words to describe his incredible voice. It had been… extraordinary. His words had seemed to hang in the air like smoke and swirl around her as he had spoken; commanding and yet gentle. He had told her not to be afraid and instantly her fear had been replaced by fascination. In that moment she would have followed any command that voice had uttered; she would have leapt from the nearest window, scaled to the top of Apollo's lyre, swung from the grand chandelier and not felt an ounce of fear. The trance she had been in was broken only by George leaping onto the man's shoulder. She had found it odd that he would be so forward with this stranger, but Magdalene had always believed that animals had a far keener sense for character than most humans and his approval had been obvious.

She rolled over again and nearly toppled off the side of the little divan. Sleep would not come easily tonight. Magdalene had too many thoughts in her head. How would she track the man down again to get George back? If she was to be ousted from the Opera tomorrow then he would not be able to find her and she knew nothing more about him than his first name. She wouldn't even be able to recognize him on the street due to the mask that has shrouded half of his face. Magdalene was saddened by the thought that she might not get her little friend back. Her dressing room seemed empty without his presence and for the first time since she had picked the kitten up on the Rue Scribe, she felt totally alone.


	10. More sleepless nights

_A/N: And here's chapter 10! Thanks to Ridel for giving me the idea for this chapter. Love my reviewers so much! Don't own POTO or anything... yadda yadda._

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Erik poled the small boat to the shore of the lake and tied it off to the small dock. The hull scraped against the wood planking and the sound echoed off the stone embankments and roughly hewn walls that made up the foundations of the opera house. Stepping onto the dock, he swept the cat up in his arm and strode toward his home.

"Let's get you cleaned up and presentable again, shall we?" Erik entered his living room and hung his hat and cloak on a brass hook. Setting George down on the carpet he removed his dress jacket and examined the shoulders. "I'm going to have to clean this up as well thanks to you," he said with a nod of his head to the cat that had begun to investigate his strange new surroundings.

At the sound of Erik's voice, a small head rose from behind the back of the divan that faced the fireplace and turned to cast large blue eyes upon the man that had just entered.

"There you are, my darling! I have someone I would like you to meet."

The small female stood and walked slowly across the room toward Erik, swaying her hips seductively and never breaking eye contact with the man.

"This is George. He will be staying with us for a time." He gestured toward the brown cat that was presently sniffing at the fringe of a Persian rug.

The blue eyes darted from Erik to the tabby and she immediately stopped in her tracks. She visibly stiffened and her joyful expression was replaced by a look of absolute indignation. She made a sound that was halfway between a scoff and a sneeze. George's ears perked at the sound and he turned to meet the little lady.

Erik sensed the danger but could not stop the brown tabby as he bounded across the room, tail aloft and ears forward, to offer a friendly greeting. The creamy colored Siamese had dropped to a crouch and was on him in an instant. Though George stood at least a head taller than the little female she showed no fear and batted him twice, hard, across the nose. Stunned, the tabby recovered enough to turn tail and run in the opposite direction. The Siamese went pelting after him, ears laid back against her head and a guttural hiss issuing from her throat.

"Ayesha, please! Wait!" Erik made a grab for the two cats as they passed him in a blur. George was running scared and in unfamiliar territory. He zigzagged through the furniture of the living room looking for an escape. Leaping on to the divan he vaulted off the seat back landing heavily upon the keyboard of the large organ. He had not expected the tremendous din that ensued and he frantically scrambled across the slick keys, loose sheets of music scattering in his wake and fluttering to the ground. Ayesha was still in hot pursuit and Erik could hear the click of her teeth as she snapped at his rear. The large tabby gave a frightened mewl as he leapt back to the ground and dashed down a dark hallway leading to several other rooms.

Erik heard a crash from one of the bedrooms and hurried to the hallway as the two cats sped through his legs and back into the living room. Rushing back to his bedroom he found his favorite samovar laid out across the floor. With a disgruntled moan he returned to the main room in time to deftly catch a lit candelabrum that the racing felines had upset in their passing. Ayesha had been momentarily slowed when a large diamond stud from her Persian collar had snagged on a drape hung loosely over a mirror in the corner. George had used the opportunity to dive head first into the narrow mouth of a Ming vase in an effort to escape his pursuer. He had efficiently wedged his head, front legs and shoulders into the opening, but his bottom had proven too large to follow. He was currently scooting across the floor with his hind legs blindly, banging the porcelain artifact against the furniture and the masonry walls, unable to crawl inside and unable to pull out. Ayesha had untangled her self and stood watching as the poor creature bounced off another wall. His pitiful mewling sounded hollow in the vase and she seemed to forget her former anger at the interloper. She sat down on the edge of the organ bench and looked from Erik to the cat as if imploring him to extricate the feline.

Erik had been standing at the hall entrance, still holding the candelabra, wondering which cat to chase after first. Seeing that Ayesha had freed herself he walked toward George who had backed himself and the vase into a corner. Placing a foot on the vase he pulled the cat free with a soft popping noise. George's eyes were huge and dilated with fear, his ears were pressed against his head and he was panting heavily. Scrambling in Erik's arms he clawed his way free and climbed to his shoulders. Ayesha had narrowed her gaze and Erik knew the race would be on again if he didn't show her equal attention immediately. Hurrying over to her, he knelt down and scratched her under her chin.

"There now, you've shown him who's boss, there's no need to terrify him further." She had tilted her head to allow him easier access to scratch behind her ears. Though still eyeing her with trepidation, George leapt down to sit at the far end of the bench. "You are still my precious little lady, but we're all going to have to get along, alright?"

Erik gave a small wry laugh as he began to tidy up the disaster that had become of his home. Life lesson learned today: Do not upset small females; they are far more vicious than they appear.


	11. Dawn of Reckoning

_A/N: Happy Easter everybunny! Here's your Easter egg, a brand spankin' new chapter! Hope you enjoy! If you review I will love you forever!_

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Gray dawn light filtered in through the small paned glass window of Magdalene's dressing room. With her room situated at the far end of the hall on an exterior wall of the opera house, she resided in one of the few dressing rooms that had a window. Though small, it afforded her a bit of natural light during the day. The leaded glass was frosted white with tiny crystals that had grown over night. November had arrived.

Magdalene sat up on the divan with a jaw-cracking yawn. She half expected to see her breath in the cool air. Wrapping the afghan around her shoulders she stood and paced across the room to the steam radiator on the far wall. Laying a hand upon it she felt it to be ice cold.

"Blast it! Of course I have the room with the broken radiator!" She kicked the metal appliance soundly with the flat of her foot and was rewarded with a bruise and a painful reminder. What did it matter? This was her last day at the Opera. Magdalene was suddenly possessed with the urge to curl up and cry, something she hadn't done since the day she buried her mother.

It had been raining that day in late autumn as Magdalene watched her mother's casket lowered into the ground. The only others in attendance were two kind nurses that had cared for Noelle during her final weeks. Oblivious to the rain and cold, Magdalene stood stoically, clutching the potted rose bush to her body. The two nurses squeezed the girl about the shoulders and wished her well before returning to the hospital to finish their shifts. Only when she was finally alone did the girl sink to her knees before the mound of freshly turned earth and weep, tears flowing unchecked down her cheeks with the rain.

"What am I supposed to do without you, mother?" she cried out to the deserted cemetery. "I don't want to be here without you. Who will be my angel now?" When Magdalene's father died, Noelle had consoled her heartbroken daughter by telling her that Jacques would send her an angel from heaven to keep her safe and watch over her. She told the girl that she would always be cared for, even when things looked their bleakest. Young Magdalene had always believed that her mother was her angel, but angels don't die.

She began clawing at the earth with her hands, digging a shallow hole near the grave. The rain had softened the soil making it easy but messy work. Carefully pulling the small rose bush from the pot she placed it in the hollow and packed soil around its base. "Rain is good for roses." She watched as the heavy drops landed on the broad leaves making them dance. The following spring, the small shrub would fill the air with the sweet scent of pale pink roses but Magdalene would not return to see them. Over the past year she had tried several times to visit her mother's grave but each attempt resulted in the same horrible feeling of grief that would grip her insides and send tears immediately springing to her eyes. She hated crying. Crying doesn't bring change, or give you answers. It doesn't solve problems or make things any better. Each time she would begin that short walk to the graveyard, and each time she would end it by stopping abruptly on the small bridge in the park and staring at her reflection in the little brook. It wasn't her face she would see but her mother's. Then she would leave whatever item she had brought with her, meant for her mother's grave, on the railing of the bridge and start back toward the Opera.

Magdalene rocked back and forth on the floor massaging her aching foot. Lying back on the chilly floor she stared at the ceiling. Everything would change today; she'd be back to being a penniless, parentless, homeless stray once again. Standing up, she began to dress. She decided to go to breakfast, at least then she wouldn't have to start out hungry. It would give her a chance to say goodbye to Meg as well.

The ballet corp usually arrived very early for morning practice. The opera house kitchens were located in the North wing in the first basement. Every morning the girls would gather and gossip with each other over croissants and scones and tea. Many Opera rumors were born at those breakfasts and they were never wanting for entertainment. Magdalene had no doubt she would be the center of conversation today and she didn't want to be there for it. If she could steal in, grab a bite to eat and escape before the majority of the girls arrived she wouldn't have to be exposed to their hostilities. Meg would be there already since she arrived with her mother in the morning well before rehearsals started.

Magdalene grabbed her practice bag from the corner intent on stuffing it full of food for later. She snapped the door closed behind her, leaving her dressing room an untidy mess. Her night clothes, pillow and blanket were still tossed on the divan, normally stowed in secret underneath. It didn't matter today, nothing mattered. Magdalene never really burned bridges but if getting sacked was inevitable then she might as well meet it head on.

She made quick time to the kitchens and prying the heavy door open she was met by Meg already eating voraciously from a pile of warm croissants with butter and black currant jam. For living an easy life with her mother and in a lovely home, Meg always tucked in like she'd been starved since birth. You couldn't tell it from her thin figure, but get too close during a meal and you were apt to lose a finger.

"MAGGEE!" Meg cried out, spitting crumbs across the scrubbed wooden table, "I've been waiting for ages!" Maggee turned toward the small window in the kitchen; it was still barely light out. She gave Meg an incredulous look. "Well it's felt like ages anyhow. I lost you after you ran after that cat last night. Did you catch it?"

"Well… yes, but-"

"I got caught too! My mother was so livid with me! Where did you get to anyway?"

"I started back to my-"

"You missed everything! There was an attack last night!" Meg stopped here and stared at Magdalene expecting a reaction. Magdalene had given up trying to actually speak with Meg and had started nibbling on a blackberry scone. Glancing up at her friend's expectant look, she realized that she was supposed to be surprised by this information.

"Uh… an attack? D-do they know who did it?"

"Of course they do! It wasn't long after you left and mother caught up with me that Joseph Bouquet came barreling out to the entrance hall looking like he's been struck down by a train!" Surely her little cymbals hadn't done that much damage to Bouquet. Meg was prone to exaggeration though. "He was stumbling around all dazed with great long scratch marks all over his face and a broken nose! Of course we all asked him what had happened but he wouldn't say a word until he'd had a snifter of brandy and a sit."

Here it comes, here it comes. She already knows! Why is she dragging this out? Magdalene was restive and gripping the edges of the table. Meg didn't notice her friend's anxiety, or if she did she simply chalked it up to fine storytelling.

"Well," Meg continued, "after he'd stopped his nose from bleeding and cleaned himself up a bit, he told us all what had happened. He said he was coming past the boxes on the second tier, just down from your dressing room, Maggee, when he met with trouble." Magdalene's mouth was dry now and she could hardly swallow the bite of scone she had forced down. All of a sudden she was no longer hungry. "He said the air got icy cold and silent and he knew he was no longer alone. When he looked about him he realized that was standing right in front of Box 5! Box 5, Maggee!" Meg had slammed her palms down on the table for emphasis. Magdalene had a perplexed look on her face. They hadn't been in front of Box 5. They were well down the hall, almost to the corner where the hall turns and leads to the stairs. "It's the Opera Ghost's box! Honestly, Maggee, pay attention!"

Magdalene snapped her focus back on her friend, "Sorry."

Meg let out an exasperated sigh. "Bouquet said there was this terrible clap of thunder and all of a sudden he was surrounded by a horrible, ghastly laugh that sapped the strength from his arms and legs until he fell and struck his head on the marble. When he awoke he said he was being attacked by some kind of demon animal and he barely escaped with his life!" Meg was standing now, hands pressed flat to the table, leaning over her friend. "This all happened last night! In this very opera house! Did you see anything? It was just down from your dressing room. Just down the hall!"

Meg was in her element. She lived for conspiracy and intrigue. The enthusiasm was palpable around her. Magdalene was leaning so far back from her friend that she nearly fell backwards. "Well… I didn't see anything like that. Is Monsieur Bouquet…is he alright?"

Meg sat back down and started to butter a warm crumpet. "The managers have given him a few days off. They're starting auditions for the new piece today so he won't be needed anyway. Messieurs Andre and Firmin disappeared last night, too. After they heard Bouquet's story they wouldn't talk to anyone. They just took their coats and hats and locked themselves in their office. Mother says they are worried that the Phantom will start exerting his control over their positions again."

Magdalene suddenly remembered seeing Madame Giry in the corridor last night and how she had nearly discovered her. "Your mother, what does she think about all this?"

Meg swallowed half the pastry in a single bite before answering, "She told me she was in that corridor last night too," Meg leaned in closely, "but she says that Bouquet is full of you-know-what!" Meg broke out into laughter, "She says that if the Opera Ghost was really there then Bouquet would be dead!" Magdalene didn't join in her friend's laughter. She was trying to puzzle everything out in her head. If Bouquet had not divulged her little secret or the fact that it had been she that attacked him in the hallway then she might not be in trouble after all. At least not yet. She certainly had not broken his nose or set a vicious demon animal after him, those were parts of the story she had yet to make sense of. The insidious laughter was true though. Had there been someone else present last night? Or something else? The man that Magdalene had met had disappeared completely; there had been nowhere for him to go. He had been just a man though. Quite solid, she had run right into him. But men don't dissolve into the air.

A shiver ran down her spine and she tried to shake the thought from her head. She finished eating her scone and felt it sit like a rock in her stomach. Down the hall she could hear the sounds of others arriving and she hurried to get up and return to her dressing room. Meg attempted to protest her departure through a mouthful of crumpet but was silenced as Magdalene felt a firm hand upon her shoulder.

"Not so fast, Mademoiselle LaFreniere. I will see you in my office. Now." Madame Giry released her shoulder and strode from the kitchens toward her office. Magdalene looked back at Meg for support but her friend would not meet her eye. Despondently she turned and followed Madame Giry, desperately trying to keep the scone she had just eaten from resurfacing.

Madame Giry unlocked her office door and ushered Magdalene in without a word. Once inside, the ballet mistress bustled around her desk, picking up an envelope that was lying quite obviously in the center of her work area. She opened it quickly, her gray eyes darting back and forth across the page. Magdalene caught a flash of red sealing wax and black trimmed parchment before Madame Giry stowed the note in a pocket of her dress. Magdalene had not visited this office since she was initially hired to the ballet corp, but it had not appeared to have changed at all. The desk was a large heavy wooden construction, kept tidy to a fault. There was nothing upon it apart from a green glass reading lamp, an ornate pen and inkwell, and a framed photo of her late husband in a silver frame. The rest of the office was equally spotless. The left wall was lined with bookshelves. To the right sat a small leather couch and coffee table. The windows were framed by brocade curtains of dark green that were kept open to allow the dawn sunlight to spill into the office, illuminating the ballet mistress from behind, giving her a shadowed, sinister appearance as she sat down in her desk chair.

"Sit," she instructed tersely, indicating a straight backed wooden chair directly in front of the desk. Magdalene swallowed hard and sat heavily in the chair willing herself to remain composed. For a few blissful minutes while talking to Meg she had honestly thought that she had somehow skirted trouble; that she would be allowed to remain at the opera after all. Now, staring into the bird-of-prey like expression of Madame Giry her little world began to crumble again.

"I am very busy today, Mademoiselle LaFreniere, so I will make this brief." Madame Giry opened a drawer and withdrew a file that Magdalene recognized as her contract, "Here is your contract and it clearly states-"

"Please, Madame Giry! I'm sorry about what happened! It won't happen again, I swear it! Just give me another chance! Please!"

The older woman stopped mid-sentence and stared at the pleading girl. Choosing to ignore the sudden outburst she continued in her sternest voice, "As I was saying, it clearly states that you are obligated to accept and perform any role assigned to you to the best of your ability." She paused as if expecting Magdalene to burst forth with another volley of apologies, "thus I am informing you that you have been appointed a solo role in the upcoming production."

Magdalene sat, still leaning out of her chair, mouth open and eyes wide, without saying a word. What was this? Had Madame Giry just promoted her to a solo role? She must have misheard. She opted to not say or do anything and sat motionless staring back at her instructor.

Madame Giry raised an eye brow at the lack of reaction from her pupil. Obviously the girl had had a bit too much fun at the Masque; she looked pale and sleepy and slightly sick. "Meg tells me you have a fine voice which is the reason I am assigning you this role. You will play a forest nymph and perform your ballet routine while echoing several lines from the lead's aria in act III. You are a strong dancer, Magdalene, and I have no doubt you will do well with this." Madame Giry paused again. The girl had still not responded apart from snapping her jaw shut at the mention of singing. With a tone that one would use to explain something simple to a small child she said, "If you have something to say regarding this matter, now would be the time."

"S-sing?" Magdalene's voice was small and shaky.

"That is what I said, Mademoiselle LaFreniere. There aren't many dancers in the corp that have the ability to both sing and dance so my choices were few. I have heard you sing on occasion and you have good pitch. Monsieur Reyer will be scheduling rehearsals with you in the upcoming weeks for your vocals and I will have private sessions with you and Meg for the dance. You will be able to attend all rehearsals, correct?"

Magdalene absently nodded her head. A vocal solo as well? What was going on? She wasn't being sacked; she was being given the opportunity to fulfill her mother's dream. The enormity hit her at once and a smile split her face.

"You will need to purchase a new pair of shoes before we begin rehearsals." Again she opened a drawer and this time took out a small black cash box. She handed Magdalene a small handful of Franc coins. "This should cover the expense; it is in addition to your current stipend and reflects the larger role that you will be encompassing. If there is nothing further, then you are dismissed for the day to purchase your shoes and read over the libretto." She handed Magdalene a thick sheaf of papers. "Your part has been highlighted, but familiarize yourself with the entire production. Monsieur Reyer and I will be auditioning for other roles for the majority of the day. Should you have any questions I'm sure Meg will be able to help you. She's more than likely listening at the door as we speak."

Behind her, Magdalene heard the sound of stifled giggling through the keyhole of the heavy door. "Merci, Madame! I will do my best!"

"I'm sure you will," she replied with a stiff nod of her head. Magdalene rose and exited carrying the libretto and stipend she had been given. She was instantly tackled by Meg outside the door.

"How exciting is this! We both get to have solos! And you, Maggee, get to sing!" Meg was bouncing on the balls of her feet. The energy it took to keep this secret from her friend had obviously been trying.

"I can't believe it," Magdalene stood shaking her head staring at Meg. She couldn't believe that she had not been asked to resign; she couldn't believe she'd been assigned a solo; and "I can't believe you told your mother I could sing!" She took a good natured swing at her friend which was easily dodged. Meg began laughing anew and grabbed Magdalene's free hand, spinning her in a circle.

"We must go out today! We'll go to lunch and buy our new shoes together!" Meg turned and started skipping down the hall back to the kitchens. "I must go tell Jammes that the monkey has a solo and she doesn't! Ha ha ha ha!"

"I'll meet you in the entrance hall at noon!" Magdalene shouted after her fiend. Meg waved an arm to show that she had heard and rounded the corner. Magdalene started in the opposite direction back to her dressing room still in a state of shock. She couldn't help but grin from ear to ear. Though terribly nervous about the new challenges that lay ahead she couldn't help but feel that her mother would be proud of her little girl. In addition, she'd finally have the opportunity to train her voice properly. It was true that she could carry a tune aptly, but to be taught to sing professionally was something Magdalene had only dreamed of.

She was humming to herself by the time she reached her dressing room door. As she reached for the door handle she heard a horrible grating sound from within her room. She froze, her hand on the knob, and listened. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard and it made her cringe. There was obviously someone in her room and she panicked, realizing that she had left it looking more like a bed room than dressing quarters. The sound abruptly ceased with a loud slam and all was silent again. Screwing up her courage, Magdalene prepared herself to confront her trespasser and pushed the door open.


	12. Notes

_**A/N:** Here's my note: All notes will now be at the end of the chapters so I can answer questions from reviewers and so forth without making everyone read my treacle headers:-) With that said, I'll see you at the bottom!_

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Erik had spent most of the evening cleaning up messes left in the wake of the battling felines. It had taken over an hour to reassemble the silver samovar and he was constantly being interrupted in order to rescue George from the tiny Siamese, Ayesha. He was mystified at the odd relationship the two cats had developed. While George appeared to be terrified of the viciousness the little female displayed, he could not be persuaded to leave her alone; it was a strange mix of fear and fascination. Time and time again George would be chased from the room only to return a short time later to cautiously sit at Ayesha's side, as if she had silently called to him to do so. Ayesha, for her part, seemed to welcome the large tabby's presence one moment, allowing him to sit nearby and even play with some of her many toys, then the next moment fly into a fit of unexplained rage, hissing at the poor confused creature and driving him back into hiding. After several hours of this, Erik was forced to shut George away in the guest room for his own protection, during which time Ayesha sat outside the door like a little sentry. 

With his home back in order Erik retired to his room intent on sleep. He undressed and sank into bed, physically exhausted but mentally alert. This was not new; his mind was often restrained by the frailty of his own flesh. For days he would sit at his organ composing, desperate to translate the music in his mind to paper; during which time he would forgo food and rest for his art, but it was not music that occupied his mind tonight. Removing the white mask from his face he placed it gently on the bedside table. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes and raked his fingers back through his dark hair. Something was out of the ordinary. It was not the caterwauling feline in the next room either. He felt genuinely different; more alive today than he had in months, maybe years. He thought back on his encounter with the little monkey girl. He had not laughed that hard in ages, his sides still ached, but he didn't think that his mirth over her vicious attack on Bouquet was the difference. No, it was the fact that once she knew he meant the little cat no harm she had no fear of him; for a short while this evening he had ceased to be the Opera Ghost and had become nothing more than a stranger met by chance. He had taken it a step farther by introducing himself and became not a stranger but an acquaintance. She knew he had a name; she had spoken it, making it real. The same foreign sensation he experienced earlier came rushing back; constricting his lungs and making his arms feel weak

Rolling over he pressed his face into the cool satin of the pillow case. Releasing a moan of muffled frustration, he knew sleep would not relieve him. She had spoken his name. He hadn't heard another human do so in years. He was angry at himself for being so affected by something so trivial. He rolled over on his back once again, kicking the sheets off in annoyance. He had more power in his voice than any man; if he spoke her name she would melt like honey in his hands. But he didn't know her name. Bolting upright in the bed he remembered the locket. He had meant to inspect it upon his return but had been so occupied with his new house guest that he had forgotten. He didn't bother to light a candle as he made his way out into the living room. His eyesight pierced the dark like a cat's and he halted in front of his roll top desk. He absently lit the oil lamp upon it as he searched the drawers looking for the trinket. Sitting down he withdrew the small locket and held it to the light. It was old, probably an heirloom, with a delicate filigree pattern etched on the front. Turning it in his hand, the back proved far more informative. Engraved in an elegant script was her surname.

"LaFreniere," rolling the name over on his tongue he once again opened the tiny clasp revealing the two faces. At once he was struck by the likeness between the dark haired woman and the girl. They must be her parents; her dark hair and eyes belonged to her mother, the jaunty cleft in her chin was her father's. Erik took up a soft cloth and distractedly began polishing the tiny locket. He thought of his own parents; Charles, who had died prior to his son's birth, and Madeleine, whose beauty had both frightened and captivated him as a child.

Wiping years of age from the gold finish, Erik examined the eyelet that had allowed the locket to hang on a chain. Worn thin and broken, it was now useless as a pendant. Erik mused that it could be easily repaired should he want to take the time and effort. He sat there staring at the locket as the gold letters of the girl's last name flickered in the oil lamp's dancing light. She had lost it while helping the kitten from the street and he admired the noble, if not irresponsible, act. He would mend it for her as a token of appreciation, nothing more.

"LaFreniere," he whispered the name again. His reverie was broken by the sound of a loud raspy meow from behind the guest bedroom door. Glancing down the hall, he watched as Ayesha lay on her side, batting a paw under the door. She had a small pile of her toys, mostly automaton mice and jingle balls, gathered at her side and was systematically pushing them under the door, one at a time, with her long forelegs. Apparently she believed their house guest to be bored in his posh little prison.

Turning back to his desk, Erik replaced the locket in a small drawer. Hearing the clock strike 3am, he rubbed his eyes and yawned. The great carved grandfather clock had come from his mother's home in St-Martin-de-Boscherville. Like all the furniture that graced the guest room, it was old, ornate and riddled with memories. He remembered attempting to disassemble the large clock as a boy, curious about its inner workings and the mechanisms that produced such a smooth and mellow tone on the hour. He had been beaten soundly and forced to stay up all night reassembling the clock. He had found the experience extremely enlightening and had filled the following weeks building smaller clocks in his attic room.

Erik heaved a sigh and resigned himself to the fact that would be up all night again. The melodic chime of the clock had reminded him that the staff would be preparing for the new production of 'Pan de la Forêt' today. Like a clock, he kept the inner workings of his Opera running smoothly by making the managers' business, his business. Andre and Firmin's judgment could not be trusted when it came to auditions, though he could usually rely on Madame Giry and Monsieur Reyer to balance out their abysmal tastes. The two men had no ear for music and eyes only for fair young faces and firm bodies. Of course, La Carlotta, though neither fair of face or body, was their darling. She drew crowds with her name alone, for it certainly could not be her voice. She had excellent range but her voice held no charm for Erik. He likened her to a wretched mina bird, mimicking the songs of many but never truly embodying the soulful beauty of any.

He procured several sheets of fresh parchment from a box of stationary. Dipping his pen in a well of scarlet ink, he began his correspondence with a letter to each manager. He informed them that he would be present during this afternoon's auditions and would provide them with a full report of who had performed acceptably, who should be given a minor role only and who should be immediately relieved of their position. Next he penned a letter addressed to Monsieur Reyer, demanding that the second chair viola be replaced. Erik sat back from his desk staring into the flickering flame of his lamp. 'Please, monsieur, I must take George away now! Monsieur Bouquet threatened to restring the second chair viola with him if he is caught!' Those had been her exact words, he believed. It was true that the violist sounded appalling, but it was not due to the instrument's strings, more it was the hack wielding it.

Erik heard a bump followed by a clatter behind the door of the guest room. One of the automaton mice had sprung to life and George had given chase, no doubt under the small spindle table near the door sending the silver ring tray to the floor. Ayesha was facing the door, tail erect and twitching, and Erik had the distinct impression that, if cats held the capacity, she would be laughing out loud.

Turning back to his desk, Erik rubbed the back of his neck, absently tugging the hairs on his nape. When he had made off with George, he had every intention of keeping him. The girl had to know that the main Opera house was no place to keep a cat, especially with the likes of Bouquet around. Why had she kept him here anyway? A more responsible person would have brought the cat home. Another crash sounded from behind the closed door; perhaps he already knew the answer to that question. George was a furry wrecking ball! Ayesha was nearly skipping with glee and bounced playfully onto Erik's lap. Stroking her little head affectionately, he had a rare pang of conscience. If anyone took his little Ayesha away, he would undoubtedly hunt them down and end their lives gruesomely. He doubted the girl held the capacity for murder, but she had been more than willing to protect the feline at any cost and he was certain she would mount a search to get George back. She obviously cared greatly for the little stray. The thought produced another unexpected surge of emotion that Erik identified as jealousy, but it passed as quickly as it had come.

Ayesha leapt from his lap to the floor and romped back over to the closed bedroom door. The partition had had an odd effect on the two cats. When they were no longer nose to nose, Ayesha had become far more genial to the newcomer and George had lost his initial fear of the foreign feline. They had started playing games and mewing back and forth to each other. Erik found it odd that a closed door, a separation, would bring the two closer. He wondered what reactions each would have when he eventually opened that door and the two met face to face again.

The clock struck the hour again and Erik realized that he must hurry to finish his correspondence in order to deliver the messages before anyone arrived at the Opera house. He had but one last letter to write. Searching across his desk he found a list of names, each belonging to a member of the ballet corp. Madame Giry did not need reminder that the Opera Ghost should be informed of all decisions, and had submitted to him a draft of potential candidates for solo roles in the upcoming production. Erik had found the list sitting on his usual seat in Box 5 along with his last month's salary. Scanning the page he halted on the role of the Wood Nymph. 'LaFreniere, Magdalene' was written in Giry's tidy script beside it. So Maggee had not been her true name after all. First names were so much more intimate. They were even now, though the girl did not know it, and Erik found a smile playing at his lips. For a short time she had held the upper hand; the power of his name, but he held the cards now and control was something Erik relished greatly.

Retrieving one last sheet of parchment he hastily wrote:

_Madame Giry,_

_As always, your talent for assigning appropriate roles is evident. Be that as it may, I shall still be present today during auditions. Your young Meg should perform admirably as the Water Nymph. As for Mademoiselle LaFreniere, she _must not_ refuse her role. She is contractually bound to accept it._

_Your obedient friend,_

_O.G._

Sealing each letter with a scarlet Death's head, Erik rose from the desk and walked back into his bedroom to dress for the day. Emerging a short time later, once again masked, he took up the letters and his cloak. Ayesha watched him from the guest bedroom door. "I won't be long, love. Do make sure our little friend remains comfortable, won't you?" Halting at the door, he doubled back and took a small oil can and a tin of grease from a tool cabinet. He needed to swing past the dressing room mirror and check the counterweight turning mechanism to assure its operation before his next trip to Box 5.

Erik usually sent his correspondence through Madame Giry for convenience sake; however, he enjoyed reminding the managers of his presence, on occasion, and left them notes behind the locked doors of their offices. It was easily done for a man of Erik's particular talent since he had ways of entering and exiting any part of the Opera house. With a personal touch, he deposited each letter in the first place it would be found in the morning. For Monsieur Andre, the note sat beside the brandy decanter behind his desk; for Monsieur Firmin, the wall safe that contained the Opera's profits and portfolios held his letter. Similarly, Madame Giry and Monsieur Reyer's letters were left in their offices, simply upon their desks. Both the ballet mistress and the conductor had been established at the Opera long enough to accept the Phantom's presence and heed his council on matters.

Erik returned to the fourth floor corridor through a wall passage and double checked that the sliding panel on the pilaster in the hall was secured. Continuing down the passage he emerged in a darkened tunnel lined with empty sconces. The walls were roughly hewn stone blocks layered with dust, cobwebs and torch soot. The floor was damp flagstone and the sound of dripping water could be heard in the distance. The tunnel felt more like a cave than part of the largest opera house in Paris. Erik turned his head to the left and peered down the length of the channel. He could make out a light emitting from the mirror he had come to examine. Narrowing his eyes he made his way toward it; his shoes silent on the flagstones as he approached. The rear of the glass panel was extremely dusty and he cautiously wiped a gloved had across it. The room beyond was vacant at he moment, but Erik noted that the gas lamps had been left burning indicating the dressing room's current state of use.

"Damn," Erik grumbled. If he was to use this pathway he would have to force out its current user. It would be easily done. A series of unfortunate 'mishaps' had kept this particular room in disuse in the past. The last time a young singer had attempted to claim this dressing room for her own, Erik had shut off the steam register, effectively freezing the girl out once the cold winter weather had gripped the city. That had been years ago.

He finished wiping the thick glass pane clean of dust and set about inspecting the counterweight. It seemed intact, despite its age and neglect. Sliding his finger over a smooth metal switch along the frame, it gave easily and the entire mirror began to glide inward and to the left slowly. Erik made a note that the greased track needed to be re-lubricated; it had been moderately squeaky in its operation but not nearly as bad as he had anticipated.

Stepping through the empty frame he was surprised to find the room very chilly. The opera maintenance crews had obviously never bothered to repair the register despite the fact that the room was once again in use. Surveying the room, Erik found it to be rather cozy. The walls had been scrubbed clean of age, the floors swept and the furniture neatly arranged. Upon the vanity was a silver hairbrush and mirror, a box of stationary, and a small carved wooden jewelry box. Casually lifting the lid, he found the little box to be empty.

Turning around he noticed the little divan on the far wall. Across it was strewn a large knit afghan and a small pillow. Sitting beside it were a pair of slippers and a white nightie was folded delicately over the arm. It was immediately obvious to Erik that the current occupant was using this dressing room for more than changing into costume; she was as much a permanent denizen of the Opera as he was. How dare she stride in here and set up house! This was his Opera and no one else's! Not only was it against policy to reside permanently in one's dressing room but she was impeding his back up route to Box 5. She would simply have to go.

Erik was fuming over this when a sound met his ears. Someone was coming down the outside hall, humming a wayward tune. Swiftly passing back through the mirror frame he flipped the switch back to its original position. The mirror did not budge. "Dammit!" he cursed through gritted teeth. With a hand on either side of the panel he attempted to force the mirror door shut. It moved but a few inches with a sound like a troupe of screeching spider monkeys. "Ugh!" Erik's sensitive ears popped with the horrible noise. Pressing his shoulder against the frame he laid his entire weight upon it. The mirror slowing began to close with his effort, metal grinding against metal, in an earsplitting din. With one final heft it slammed into place again. The jarring motion had set the large pane wobbling and Erik pressed his entire body against the smooth glass in an effort to still its movement just as the dressing room door swung open.

"Who's there?" Her head peered into the doorway, looking right and left. Erik could not believe it. He almost didn't recognize her without the furry tail. Again she was looking terrified, but this time she didn't clutch a cat to her chest but a sheaf of papers and her practice bag. "I know someone's in here! Show yourself!" Her courageous words belied her trembling hands as she timidly stepped into the room. Shutting the door behind her she laid the papers down on the vanity desk. Erik noticed it was the libretto for the new opera.

She pulled open the doors of her armoire and checked under the furniture. She began to fold the blanket and tuck it away with the pillow under the divan, apparently satisfied that no one could be hiding in the tiny room. She moved over to the heat register and held her head close to it, listening. Perhaps she thought the loud noises to be repair work in the boilers. She gave an involuntary shiver and retrieved a shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders tightly.

Erik did not move a muscle. Still pressed against the glass, he watched her move about the room tidying up. This was the girl he was going to drive out of the dressing room? It made sense to him now why she had kept George at the Opera, she had indeed brought him home; the only home she had. The war had left many youngsters as orphans. War was always harshest on children and animals. She had no doubt been left alone and managed the best way she could. It could have been much worse for her. Many orphaned girls either died or ended up as prostitutes. The thought of turning the girl out to become a whore on the Parisian streets left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Taking up the libretto, she sat down on the divan and began leafing through it. With her attention focused on her reading, Erik took the opportunity to step slowly away from the mirror, careful not to let the wobbling glass betray his presence. He remained standing in the tunnel watching her. A small smile graced her face as she read the story of Pan and Carolle. 'Pan de la Forêt' was a trite but enjoyable little piece based loosely on Greek mythology. It had never before been performed at the Opera Populaire and many preparations were to be made prior to its debut in the New Year. Sets had to be built, backgrounds painted and costumes made.

Her foot bobbed and her head swayed as she read on. She seemed to be hearing the music in her head. Erik studied her features. When she was not dressed as a primate she was really quite fetching. She had large brown eyes and a small nose. She had a slight cleft in her chin and a beautifully lined jaw that led to a graceful neck. Though short of stature for a dancer, she had a light frame and she held herself in a manner that made her seem much taller than she really was. Her dark auburn hair spilled over her shoulders and she continuously tucked errant strands over her ear. It framed her fair complexion admirably.

Erik was surprised to find that he had unknowingly stepped back up to the mirror and had a hand held against the glass. He was startled as a knocking sounded on the dressing room door and he leapt back from the looking glass abruptly. The girl's head shot up and she stared directly at him.

"Who's there!" She seemed as startled as he was. Erik's heart caught in his throat and for a split second he believed she had directed the question at him.

"It's Meg! I've been waiting in the entrance hall for thirty minutes, Maggee!" The girl continued to stare at the mirror. In reality she had been looking up at the refection of her dressing room door, but as she had done so the image had wavered; as if she had knocked against the old glass and set it trembling.

"I'm sorry!" Getting up she let her friend in the door. Meg burst in berating Magdalene for her lateness.

"I can't believe you use this room! You know it haunted, right?" Meg glanced nervously around the room and fingered the tiny gold cross she always wore around her neck.

"Please, Meg! With you everything is haunted!" Magdalene laughed and took a long black cloak from a peg near the door. Stowing the libretto away in her vanity drawer she changed into street shoes and turned back to her friend. "Are you ready to go?"

"Been ready for thirty minutes, remember?"

"Oh… yes. I was reading the libretto and must have lost track of the time." She checked her dress pocket which jingled merrily with coins. "I'm starved! Where are we headed?"

"Just follow me! I know a great place where we can eat and then we'll go by our shoes. On the way I'll tell you the story of the last girl that used this dressing room!"

"Fabulous," Magdalene replied with a roll of her eyes. Erik watched Meg exit followed by the girl. Before she closed and locked the dressing room door she gave one last glance toward the mirror. It showed no further signs of movement and she snapped the door shut with a click.

Erik was once again alone, standing in the tunnel looking in on an empty room. He realized with a start that he too had forgotten the time and had already missed over half of the auditions he had meant to attend. He chose to skip them altogether. His mind was once again sent reeling by the girl and he had no desire to listen to the caterwauling of chorus singers. Taking up the tin of grease he had brought with him he set about re-lubricating the metal track of the mirror. Once satisfied with its silent operation he left to turn the steam register back on to the little room. His own home in the cellars was warmer than that dressing room had been. Erik smiled to himself. If he was to share his Opera House with a guest, then by all means, he must be a gracious host.

* * *

_Welcome to the bottom of the chapter! Hope you enjoyed it! I have a hard time writing chapter's from Erik's POV, not being a disfigured musical genius myself, I sometimes find it difficult to get into his head. I try my best though. If you haven't already noticed, I'm doing a counterpoint story, back and forth, between Erik and Magdalene. That's why some of the chapters are short and some are long; they don't always have a lot to say I guess! I'm working on making the chappies longer though. We all like BIG updates and not rinky-dink ones!  
For those of you wondering, no, there is no Christine in this story and I don't think there will be. In my little POTO story she doesn't exist. I've kind of replaced her with Magdalene's character. Thank you for saying that Magdalene is not "Mary-Sueish" even though I have no idea what that's supposed to mean. Like I said, I'm new to this whole fiction thing:-)  
I'm doing my best to keep the grammer proper and the spelling correct. It annoys me to no end whena good story is riddled with mispellings. I have no beta-reader, though, so I do my best!_

_Please, please, please review me! I love reviews and my reviewers! As long as I keep getting them I'll keep writing! I've got lots of ideas for this story and can't wait to get them down on paper!_


	13. An Afternoon in Paris

Chapter 13

Meg and Magdalene walked swiftly though the streets in an attempt to stay warm. Meg's words puffed out ahead of them as vapor in the frosty air.

"Sabine only used that dressing room for a couple of weeks. This was several years ago. She's married now. She was a favorite of the Viscount de Labourd. He would visit her after every performance".

They had arrived at a small, nondescript bistro. Meg opened the door and both girls sighed as the warmth drifted out of the doorway to meet them. The scent of fresh baked bread and pastries lured them across the door step and they found a small unoccupied table in the corner.

"Be with you in a moment girls!" barked a stout and rosy cheeked woman from behind the counter. She was busy hefting trays of hot and floury baguettes onto cooling racks.

"You'll want to order the Crepe au Poulet. It's the best!" Magdalene's stomach gave an audible rumble at the thought and the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen had her mouth watering. The rosy cheeked woman strode across the bistro, side stepping tables and chairs. She was holding aloft two white porcelain cups on saucers that were steaming.

"Start you young things off with a nice cappuccino on a chilly afternoon like this!" She smiled down at the two girls and set a cup before each of them. Magdalene immediately lifted her cup to her nose and breathed in the dark creamy aroma.

"Merci Madam!" But just as Magdalene was about to put the cup to her lips the woman laid a hand on her forearm.

"Whoa there! You'll scald yourself! Let it cool a moment or you won't be able to taste a thing all day! Who on earth is this you've brought with you today, Giry?"

Laughing at her friend's over eagerness, Meg said, "Rosamund, this is Maggee LaFreniere. She is in the ballet corp with me. I don't think she gets out much!"

Magdalene blushed lightly. "Sorry, it just smells so good."

"You dancers always look half starved to me! She could do with a nice cuppa and good meal. What will it be today?"

"Two Crepe au Poulet, please."

"Right away, and some soup to go with it. Just made up a fresh crock of onion this morning!"

Magdalene couldn't wait any longer and after several cooling breaths that sent the foam on her cappuccino swirling she took a sip.

"Good isn't it?"

"Mm hmm."

"So anyway, Sabine hated that room from the start. She said it always smelled damp and uncomfortable and she would tell anyone who would listen that someone would watch her."

"Watch her? The room's not that big. I'm fairly sure she would know if someone was there with her."

"Psh! Not someone, something! And always when she thought she was alone."

Magdalene swallowed a savory spoonful of her soup before replying, "Meg that makes no sense. Why would she feel she was being watched but also feel she was alone?"

Magdalene grinned at Meg's reaction to her intentional misunderstanding. She always enjoyed getting a rise out of Meg Giry as well as testing her superstitious beliefs.

"Oh honestly, Maggee! You are the least romantic person I know!" Magdalene was unsure what was supposed to be romantic about an unseen, possibly ethereal voyeur, but she did not contest her friend's outburst. "The point is she never felt the dressing room was really hers. She said she always had an uncomfortable feeling there. All manner of mishaps befell that room. The gas lamps would turn off on their own, she would hear knocks and taps in the walls and when she got so fed up with it all she told me she stamped her foot and yelled at the room itself to stop all the nonsense. She said she regretted it the moment the words left her lips. The room became angry, then cold. She packed up right then and left to see the manager about a new room assignment."

"The room became…'angry'?"

"Yes and freezing cold. It was never warm again."

"The heat register doesn't work."

"Ugh! You're so practical all the time! It doesn't work because HE didn't want her there! If you're going to be this deadpan all afternoon then I'm not buying your lunch!"

Magdalene laughed good naturedly at her friend. "You don't have to buy my lunch!"

"Maman told me to. She said the money she gave you was for shoes."

Magdalene smiled and made a mental note to thank Madame Giry later for her kindness.

"You'll have to see her later to get a new dressing room assignment."

"Why?"

"Well even if you don't believe me that the room is haunted, you said yourself that the heat doesn't work."

"Oh… yes. I suppose you're right."

The girls gathered their bags and cloaks and bid adieu to Rosamund, promising to return as soon as their practice schedules allowed.

Stepping back out into the cold air, the pair turned north up the street. The shoemaker had a small shop near the river and was on the way back toward the opera house.

Against her better judgment Magdalene asked, "When you said 'he didn't want her there,' did you mean..."

"The Phantom. Yes," Meg replied very matter-of-factly. "He likes his space, and he likes his solitude. Intrude upon either and you run the risk of his ire."

While Magdalene did feel she might be construed as an intruder, she felt it was upon the Opera property in general, not any one's personal space. The thought of giving up her little dressing room was more distressing than it should have been. It had been her sanctuary and essentially her home since joining the Opera. She did not want to give it up. Magdalene thought about what Meg had told her of the previous tenant, how uncomfortable and frightening she had found the room to be. Magdalene had never felt uneasy there. Perhaps if the room indeed had a personality it found her acceptable and would allow her to stay.

As if reading her thoughts, Meg whispered, "If you are lucky, maybe the Opera Ghost will take a shine to you. He is a very clever and resourceful ally to have on your side."

Taken aback for a moment Magdalene replied with a smile, "Meg, you speak of him as if he was one of the Opera's patrons!"

Without smiling, Meg returned, "He's the Opera's most influential patron." With that they arrived at the shoemaker.

Meg and Magdalene spent two enjoyable hours choosing from an assortment of ballet slippers. The craftsman measured each of the girls' feet individually and fit them to perfection. Taking the opportunity to stock up on lambs' wool and stockings, they paid for their purchases and started back toward the opera house as the sun began to drop low in the sky.

As the early evening light began to wane it grew even colder and the girls scurried up the front steps to gain the warmth of the entrance hall. Before they parted, Magdalene bid Meg to thank your mother for lunch.

"Don't forget to tell her about needing a new room."

"She's busy today. I'll probably have better luck convincing the Ghost I will be a good tenant than getting a moment of your mother's time this evening."

"Suit yourself!"

As they went their separate ways Magdalene could not suppress her good mood. She had had a wonderful day and even the thought of a freezing cold heat register did not dampen her spirits. She had not been fired, she had been promoted. She enjoyed a delicious lunch with a friend and she had brand new shoes to break in during practices tomorrow. And best of all, No Joseph Bouquet to avoid for at least a few days. Magdalene decided that after the Opera emptied out tonight she would venture out and see if George could be found in any of his usual haunts.

As Magdalene arrived at her dressing room she opened the door not to the frigid chill that she had left, but to warmth that reached out and drew her inside. Positively delighted, she closed the door behind her and set her bag down near the vanity desk. Crossing the room she approached the heat register and extended a hand over it. What had been cold and lifeless just this morning now radiated so much heat that Magdalene twisted the valve to turn down its ferocity. Stripping off her cloak and shoes she sat down at the desk to finish looking over the Libretto she had started earlier. As she riffled through the sheets of paper she glanced up at her mother's photo.

"Maybe you and father _have_ sent me a guardian Angel. Lord knows I need all the help I can get."


End file.
